Getting Back
by jharad17
Summary: AU after HBP, Slash. The summer after his 6th year, with Dumbledore dead, Harry is flung twenty years into the past and needs the help of both Marauders and a certain Slytherin to get back his memories and to return to his own time. HPRAB, HPSS, HPSB?
1. Chapter 1

**Getting Back**

**By jharad17**

**Summary**: AU, Slash after OotP. During the summer after his 6th year, Harry is flung twenty years into the past and needs the help of both Marauders and a certain Slytherin to get back his memories and to return to his own time. HPRAB, HPSB?, HPSS?

**Warnings**: This story will be slash. I will warn again about particularly graphic scenes in the future, but this is an overall slashy story. The primary pairing at this time will be Harry/Regulus. Others will happen later. Probably. So anyway, you have been warned. There will also be angst, violence, bloodshed, and some more angst.

This opening chapter is fairly short, for which I apologize. Others will be longer.

**Chapter One**

Twelve Grimmauld Place was utterly silent, apart from the occasional sigh from its lone occupant. Curled up with his legs tucked underneath him, Harry Potter sat on the sofa in the drawing room and stared into the last remnants of the fire that Hermione had Floo'd to the Burrow through. They had -- the two of them -- recast the Fidelius Charm over the house, now that Dumbledore was gone. Hermione was the new Secret Keeper, and unlike his father's trust in Pettigrew, Harry knew he could trust _his_ friend absolutely. She would never betray him to Voldemort.

Or to the Order, for that matter.

Closing his eyes, Harry sighed again. Hermione was, in fact, the only person he trusted completely anymore. Albus Dumbledore was dead, killed not three weeks ago by that bastard traitor Snape. Sirius was dead a year ago now, and Harry didn't really trust any of the other Order members with his life; too often had they failed him. And though he was one of Harry's best friends, Ron was entirely too emotional and volatile to trust for long, or with such a secret. And Ginny . . .

Well. Ginny was a whole 'nother issue. He knew she wanted to be with him, and sometimes he believed her. Hell, sometimes he thought he wanted to be with her, too. But most of the time . . . he knew was not cut out for a relationship of that kind. He could have friends, and with a lot of effort on his part, he could have friends like Hermione, whom he could trust more than any other living person. But he could trust no one with his heart, never mind a girl who had been obsessed with him since she was ten years old.

Besides, ever since fourth year, he had been having doubts about his sexuality. Unlike many of the boys who chatted up such things in the showers -- or even at night in the dorm, when Harry was trying to get in a good wank before getting a not-quite-good-enough night's sleep, thankyouverymuch -- he hadn't done any experimenting. But when he caught himself checking out Cedric's muscled torso after he'd gone up against the dragon, when Madam Pomfrey had been spreading burn salve on his arm . . . and then, when he started noticing things like Gred and Forge's lithe, athletic builds after their one and only Quidditch match fifth year, or the light dusting of dark hair on Seamus' chest that trailed down, down . . . and even when he'd started fantasizing about his once-beloved Half-Blood Prince, or noticing Snape's long fingered hands when he was stirring a potion . . . before he knew for certain that the man was a murdering bastard . . . . Well, he could hardly continue to deny he was attracted to men.

Not that it mattered anymore. He wasn't allowed to have a life like that. He had a duty to fulfill, horcruxes to find, a Dark Lord and at least one very special despicable minion to destroy. If he lived through that -- which he very much doubted, since he was fairly sure he was one of the horcruxes in question -- then maybe he could have a life of his own.

_All right_, he chastised himself, _enough already. No more whinging._ He had work to do. He had spent the last month searching this house for anything -- especially dark magic artifacts and books -- that might help him, researching, reading and practicing spells . . . but it wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.

Shoving himself out of the chair, Harry held in the next sigh that wanted to escape. No more whinging, he promised himself. Selflessness, courage and perseverance. That was all he had now. All he needed.

Taking several books with him, he made his way upstairs and collapsed on the bed in Regulus Black's old room. He had decided very soon after moving in that he did not want to sleep in Sirius' room, with all its Gryffindor brightness and cheeriness, and all those memories of Sirius himself. No. Regulus' room, done in green and silver and with a large image of the Black family crest above the head of his bed, was a more solemn reminder of his duty. And the bed was more comfortable, too. He managed to get through most of one of the books before succumbing to sleep.

The next morning, Harry was up early to start his routine. He showered in almost scalding water, then dressed in some of Regulus' old clothes. They were the closest to his size in the entire house, and he'd decided to use them, since they were legally his, now that Sirius had left him the house and all its contents in his will. Besides, he couldn't go shopping with Death Eaters out for his blood, and he refused to wear Dudley's mammoth castoffs anymore.

In the kitchen, he made some tea and toast, but since he brought both with him to the library, they grew quite cold before he ate or drank more than half. His afternoons were devoted to going through the house and categorizing various items he found, and looking for things the Order might have overlooked when they cleaned the place -- like the damned Slytherin locket that Dumbledore had given his life for, for one thing.

He had found the locket in amongst Kreacher's rags in the cubby hole the House Elf used in the pantry off the kitchen. He'd also found the music box that had nearly knocked everyone out with its sinister tune, as well as a box containing an Order of Merlin, First Class, given to Sirius' grandfather years and years ago. Obviously the unlikable Kreacher was trying to protect various family heirlooms. And given that Mundungus Fletcher used to have free rein here, Harry could guess from whom.

The locket was now safe, or as safe as he could keep it, hanging around Harry's neck. He just had to figure out a way to destroy it.

That afternoon, he found a small, hidden compartment in the wall toward the back of the drawing room. Harry spent almost two hours checking the compartment for curses, and breaking the ones he did find, before he opened it up, using a rather strong version of the Alohomora spell. Inside was a tall, but narrow shelf, upon which were several boxes. Most of them were small and flat, but one immediately caught his eye. This larger box, like for jewelry, was covered with gold filigree, inlaid with tiny gemstones. No matter what was inside, the box itself was worth a fortune!

Recalling some of the dark magic items from the other cabinets in the drawing room, Harry checked for curses on the jewelry box before touching it, and was glad he did. The curse upon the box would have turned his blood to air and any air in his body to blood. Blech. Very glad to have been working with Hermione since the end of term on curse breaking, Harry nullified the curse on this box, checked it again, to make sure there weren't any others, and then gently lifted the jewelry box out of the hidden cubbyhole.

The latch was another bit of filigree, and he deftly flicked it open with his thumb, though he faced the box away from him when he lifted the lid, figuring he couldn't be too careful. A puff of some kind of powder plumed into the air from within the box. Harry blew on it, to help it dissipate away from him. Rather than disperse with his breath, however, the cloud of particles grew more dense. At the same time, the cloud expanded, filling the corner of the drawing room. Harry waved his hand through the haze that had quickly surrounded him, then covered his mouth and nose and tried to duck out of it, backing away. Nothing worked. The fog of dust or powder moved with him, and he could not breathe! He choked on the particles, and they burned like fire in his lungs, smothering him.

Harry fell to his knees, gasping for breath, but unable to get any at all. In the last second before he lost consciousness, a bright light flared from inside the jewelry box, surrounding him and blinding him, even as he tried to shield his face.

And then he knew no more.

* * *

Something cold and wet hit his face with the force of a crashing wave, and he sat up, sputtering. "What the--?!" He swiped water and hair out of his face. "Where . . .?" Finally getting his eyes opened, he peered blearily up at the one who had woken him. "Who're you?"

Anger snapped in bright blue eyes which gazed back at him. The eyes were set in the face of a young man of about sixteen or seventeen. He had narrow lips, a straight nose and black, shiny hair that fell to his shoulders. He looked very familiar, but he couldn't put a name to the face. "A better question is, who are _you_? This is my house. How did you get in here? How did you get through all the protections?"

"That's three questions," said the boy on the floor. He coughed, feeling lightheaded and dizzy, and pressed a hand to his forehead where he felt the ridged flesh of an old scar. "I don't know where I am, so how can I know how I got here?"

"You don't know where . . ." The young man pushed a hand through his dark hair. "All right, then. Who are you? Surely you can answer that."

He shook his head, but that just made him feel like he was going to vomit. He gulped one breath, then another, and tried to quiet his stomach. Why couldn't he remember anything? "I . . . I don't know. I can't remember."

"Ridiculous," the young man said, and drew a wand from his pocket. Just before he aimed it at the boy on the floor, a screech sounded from the hallway behind him.

"Regulus!" a woman shrieked. "What are you doing? You've been called to dinner three times!"

Glancing over his shoulder, the black haired young man sighed and said, "Yes, Mother."

* * *

A low sofa hid the boy on the floor from Walburga Black's prying eyes, and there was something about him, something decidedly odd, but not necessarily . . . dangerous, that made Regulus want to keep him a secret from the overbearing woman. For now. "I'll be there in just one moment."

"Be sure you are, Regulus. Your father has some important news."

"Yes, Mother," Regulus repeated firmly, and waited till she'd gone before he turned back to the boy in front of him, with his wand now aimed at the boy's chest. The boy looked perhaps fifteen or so, with dark, messy hair, sharp green eyes, and square-framed glasses. He was rather thin, but his clothes looked very much like Regulus' own, just a couple sizes too big for his small frame. He wore no robe, but that wasn't unusual for students on their summer holidays. "Do you have a wand?" he asked.

The boy pressed a hand to his head again briefly, as if he were in pain, then felt at his trouser pocket and slid out a length of holly which looked well cared for, and well used.

"Can you cast a Disillusionment Charm?"

The boy nodded again, but his expression turned wary. "Why?"

"I have no wish for my dear mother to see you sneaking up to my room. Of course, if you want her to know you're here . . ."

A multitude of expressions crossed the boy's face, but he came to a decision quickly, all the same. "No. Thanks. Where's your room?"

"Fourth floor. There's a sign on the door with my name on it. I'm assuming you heard my dear mother screech my name?" At the boy's wry smile and tiny nod, he continued, "Make sure you don't mistake my room for the one across the hall." That would be all he'd need, for the boy to set off the wards on Sirius' old room. He hadn't seen Sirius, except from afar at school, for over a year, ever since he'd run away and gone to live with the Potters. Truth be told, he missed his brother. But his mother had placed all sorts of nasty curses on his room in a fit of pique, and this boy didn't need to deal with any of that.

"All right," the boy said. Arms and legs trembling, he pushed himself to his feet, then leaned heavily on the back of the sofa nearest them.

"Can you even walk?" Regulus asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'll make it." As if to prove as much, he took an awkward step forward, and when he didn't collapse, Regulus stepped back.

"Disillusionment, remember?"

"Oh. Right." The boy frowned, green eyes squinched up in concentration, and then tapped the top of his head with his hand, without saying a word, and faded from sight.

A wandless, wordless spell! This boy was powerful, to be sure, to be casting like that at his young age. Regulus was more sure than ever that he should not let his mother -- or father -- know of his presence. "I'll meet you upstairs in an hour," he told the boy. "Kreacher will bring you something to eat, meantime."

"Thanks," the boy whispered, from closer to the door, and Regulus called Kreacher, his favorite House Elf, and told him to help the boy get upstairs, if he required it, and to bring him some food from the kitchens once he was there. He waited till Kreacher had gone, wondering about the boy, and where he had come from, and wondering if he would be a good prospect for the Dark Lord he had joined a few months ago. He didn't think the boy was lying about not remembering where he was -- he had been too disoriented for that -- but not even knowing his own name? He had recalled where his wand was, though -- although many students kept wands in their pockets -- but he'd also known the Disillusionment spell. He just didn't know where he was, or what his name was? That was some serious amnesia. A powerful curse, he was sure. And Regulus would need a seriously powerful wizard to help him help the boy.

Now he just needed to set up a meeting.

To Be Continued . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Getting Back**

**Chapter Two**

**By jharad17**

**Summary**: AU, Slash after OotP. During the summer after his 6th year, Harry is flung twenty years into the past and needs the help of both the Marauders and a certain Slytherin to get back his memories and to return to his own time. HPRAB, HPSS, HPSB?

**Warnings**: This story will be slash. I will warn again about particularly graphic scenes in the future, but overall, this is a slash story.

_There's a little, tiny bit of slashy stuff in this chapter, for instance. _

**Other Warnings**: Naturally, the story will also contain angst, violence, romance, angst, adventure, bloodshed, and probably some more angst.

**Pairings:** The primary pairing at this time will be Harry/Regulus, but later it will be HPSS, with possible other pairings as I go along, for Harry or for other characters. Nothing's written in stone, so if you have a fave pair or plot bunny you would like to see explored, let me know.

**Previously, in Chapter One:**

_"Thanks," the boy whispered, from closer to the door, and Regulus called Kreacher, his favorite House Elf, and told him to help the boy get upstairs, if he required it, and to bring him some food from the kitchens once he was there. He waited till Kreacher had gone, wondering about the boy, and where he had come from, and wondering if he would be a good prospect for the Dark Lord he had joined a few months ago. . . . _

_Now he just needed to set up a meeting._

Regulus suffered through dinner with his parents, tuning out most of what his mother said; she was crazy, and had been for years. She was the main reason Sirius had given for why he'd left home. And really, Regulus could not blame his older brother for leaving. If he could get away with it, Regulus would move out, too.

But where would he go? To Lucius Malfoy? Malfoy had been a sixth-year Prefect when Regulus had entered Hogwarts, and was now -- only three years out of school -- Lord Voldemort's right hand man. But Malfoy had never paid any mind to Regulus, except as a possible recruit for the Dark Lord, and worse, he had always held Sirius' sorting against him, as if it were Regulus' fault that his brother was a bloody Gryffindor who didn't care for the Dark Arts. No, he could not take refuge with Malfoy.

Nor could he do so with any of his other recently graduated comrades among the Dark Lord's followers. Despite the fact -- or maybe because of it -- that Regulus was the youngest of those the Dark Lord had ever marked, his fellow Death Eaters looked upon him with some disdain. He hated being condescended to and ignored; he'd gotten that same treatment from Sirius the last few years his brother had lived at home, as if Regulus was failing, somehow, at simply existing. And now that Sirius was gone, their parents heaped all of their expectations on Regulus as their only remaining son. He was meant to be the perfect, pureblood heir.

School was no different. Yes, he was bookish and a bit of a loner, but he was also fairly powerful, magically, and the Dark Lord saw his potential; He'd said so when Regulus had taken His mark! He understood why the Gryffs and Hufflepuffies would avoid him, as the heir to the House of Black, but even Slytherins eschewed him, for the most part.

Really, the only one who treated him as just a regular person, even at school, was Severus Snape. Snape was only a year ahead of him at school, like Sirius, and Snape treated _everyone_ with the same brand of sneering sarcasm and biting wit, making no exceptions for kith or kin. Regulus actually appreciated Snape's repartee, especially when it was directed at someone besides himself, and he spent time in Snape's company whenever he could, for studying and whatnot. Snape mostly ignored him, when he wasn't sniping about something, but seemed to tolerate his presence well enough.

Before Severus' sixth year, however, he had had little time for Regulus. Seemingly obsessed with his studies, he used to be in the library more often than not, sometimes with a Mudblood Gryffindor girl. And though he had been more available last year, and far less often in the company of that Mudblood, Snape had also spent more time with his sixth-year mates, like Rudolphus Lestrange, Evan Rosier and others who were well on their way to becoming Death Eaters. He still rarely had time for Regulus.

Anyway, even if he had been a more attentive friend, Snape certainly had no ability to give him succor during the holidays like the Potters did for Sirius. Rumor had it that he was a half-blood, who lived with his Muggle father and Witch mother during school hols. Regulus imagined that was a far worse fate than sticking it out another two years with his own parents, Walburga and Orion, no matter what pressures they put on him as their heir.

Besides, now he had the mystery boy to worry about, and if Orion found out about him before he'd created a decent cover story . . .

"--will answer me, boy, if you know what's good for you!"

Speak -- or think -- of the devil. His father had apparently been trying to get his attention for a few moments now, and was already at the point of making threats. Damnit.

Regulus dipped his head in Orion's direction. "My apologies, Father." He would not offer an excuse for his inattention unless one was demanded of him; it gave his father less ammunition to use later.

Orion waved a sheet of parchment in Regulus' face. "Would you care to explain _this_ to me?" His agitation made his full face splotchy.

Regulus wondered, not for the first time, if his father would succumb to some Muggle malady, like high blood pressure, that would burst his heart. It would be an ironic end, truly, for someone Regulus had long considered to have no heart at all. "I'm not sure what that is, Father," Regulus replied, with just the right amount of deference.

"Your O.W.L. results," Mother supplied helpfully. Her eyes were mostly clear, only a little crazed tonight. She had not screamed obscenities in almost half an hour. "I believe your father is concerned about several of your scores."

Regulus frowned, just a touch, enough to lightly crease his forehead, but not enough to make his father think he was actually afraid of him or anything. "I haven't seen the scores . . . but I thought I passed everything . . ."

"Oh, you did, dear," Mother started, at the same time as Orion shouted, "Passing is not good enough for the heir of the House of Black!"

_Oh, hell_, Regulus thought. It was to be another of _those_ conversations.

* * *

Upstairs, Kreacher stood in the corner, invisible, watching the boy his Master wanted him to keep an eye on. Having taken off his shoes, the boy was stretched out on Master's bed, his head at the foot and his feet on one of Master's pillows. Not blinking, he gazed up at the Black family crest on the wall above the bed.

He was a strange boy, Kreacher decided. He was horribly skinny, with wrists tiny enough that Kreacher was sure any _House Elf_ could wrap a hand around one with room to spare. In fact, the boy looked malnourished, as if he had no House Elf to feed him. Perhaps he truly didn't. He had eaten the food Kreacher brought him as if he were starving, after all.

Another curiosity was the boy's eyes. Though his expression was calm and composed enough to fool most Humans, the boy's eyes told a different story; they were bright green, and currently riveted on the crest on the wall, but they held a tinge of darkness in them, as if the boy had seen awful things, terrible things, but did not want to admit them.

The strangest thing of all, of course, was the fact that the boy was wearing Master Regulus' clothes, but clothes that were _still in Master's wardrobe_. Kreacher had checked. Kreacher did not know how it was possible for there to be two of that particular shirt, when all of Master Regulus' shirts were tailored specially for him.

"You don't have to stand in the corner," the boy said suddenly, without a glance in Kreacher's direction. "You can come over here and sit down, if you like."

Kreacher startled. The boy could see Kreacher? Impossible! Unwilling to believe Kreacher had been spotted, Kreacher stayed put.

But then the boy rolled over onto his side, and his bright green gaze sought Kreacher out, making the House Elf recoil and cover his face with his hands. "Did I say something wrong?" the boy asked politely.

Kreacher shook his head. "You are not to be seeing me, friend of Master Regulus. No wizards can be seeing Kreacher, except for Master's family."

"Sorry," the boy said, and gave Kreacher a wry smile.

Kreacher shuddered, not understanding. _Master Regulus_ was kind to Kreacher, speaking to Kreacher as if Kreacher were not a slave, but Master was the only one in generations of Blacks to do so.

Disposing of the invisibility, as it was obviously not working, Kreacher took a tiny step forward, hands held palm up, toward the strange boy. "Where is you be coming from, friend of Master?" Kreacher asked, voice wavering only a little. Kreacher knew Master Regulus wanted to know about the boy, and Kreacher would help Master however possible. Perhaps the boy would answer questions for Kreacher that he would not answer for Master.

"I don't know," the boy said. And again, "Sorry."

Kreacher jerked as if slapped. No wizard, except Master Regulus, could say he was sorry to Kreacher. Not and mean it. Kreacher was only a House Elf. "Youse must not say such things, friend of Master. "

"Must not say what, Kreacher?"

"Must make no apologies to Kreacher, friend of Master."

The boy sat on edge of the bed, dangling his legs over the side, and peered at Kreacher curiously. "I'm sorry, I don't under--" The boy bit his lip with a wince when Kreacher flinched at the apology. "Oh, sor . . . I mean, er . . . why can't I say that?"

"Kreacher is only a House Elf, friend of Master. No House Elf deserves such words."

"Really?" the boy asked. "What if I mean it?"

"Youse cannot mean it. Only Master Regulus says such things and means them."

The boy smiled again, and Kreacher took another step toward him, drawn to him, to the smile, though Kreacher did not know why. "You like him very much, don't you?" the boy asked.

"Master Regulus?" Kreacher sighed, and his long fingers smoothed along the hem of the faded pillowcase slung over his body. "Oh yes, of course, friend of Master. He is a wondrous wizard, so perfect and kind and--"

"Okay, I get it," the boy said, grinning and holding up his hands, as the bedroom door eased open behind Kreacher. "He has been very kind to me as well."

"That's right," came Master's voice as he stepped into the room. He looked upset, and Kreacher moved to his side immediately, to see what could be done to help soothe Master's mood. "Perhaps you can repay me by telling me your name."

"Master Regulus--" Kreacher started, wanting to tell Master about the clothes, but Master held up his hand, giving a sharp shake of his head. Kreacher fell silent, though leaned his body toward Master. Had Kreacher done something to displease Master? In the next moment, however, Master gently touched the top of Kreacher's head, and Kreacher sighed in relief and wonder. Master truly was the best of wizards.

"I'm sorry, Regulus," said the strange boy, "but I haven't had any luck remembering."

Master's eyes narrowed as he stared at the boy, but after a minute, he nodded. "You'll forgive me for not quite believing you, I'm sure."

"Of course."

When the boy gave another wry smile, similar to the one he had given Kreacher earlier, Kreacher could see that edge of darkness within the depths of the boy's eyes, like a deep sadness. Kreacher shuddered slightly, against Master's leg, and Master petted his head, easing his fears. Kreacher gazed up at Master, feeling the boy's eyes on them.

"Your House Elf is very devoted to you," said the boy.

Master's hand stilled, and Kreacher tensed, but Master did not sound angry when he spoke. "I care for him, as he has done for me since the day I was born. I'm certain no one cares for me as much as he does."

Kreacher nodded frantically in agreement, and Master's hand resumed its gentle movement along the ridge of Kreacher's skull.

"That's . . . that's good," the boy said, but with some emotion Kreacher could not put a name to, which made his voice sound thick. When Kreacher looked up, the boy had turned his face away, to stare at the far wall.

"What's wrong?" Master asked the boy. "Are you remembering something?"

"I . . . I don't know." The boy shook his head, and his hands were trembling. "I just had a . . . not a memory, really, but . . . a feeling, I suppose."

"What kind of feeling?" Master strode forward, dropping a sheet of parchment on his desk as he passed it. Kreacher could see from the creases along the edge that it had been gripped tight in Master's fist, but Kreacher could not read what the parchment said. Master stopped right in front of the boy, and they stared at each other. "Do you know?"

The boy shrugged, rather helplessly, and stuttered, "I, I just had a sense of . . . I don't know . . . loneliness? I can't explain it well."

"It makes sense," Master said, with a small frown. "Since you don't know where you belong, you don't really have anyone right now."

A ghost of a smile passed over the boy's face and was gone, leaving only that darkness in his eyes. "It's more like, I have a sense I've never really belonged anywhere."

Master's frown deepened, and he was silent for a long time, his gaze never leaving that of the boy in front of him. Kreacher knew, in part, what he must be thinking. Ever since his blood-traitor of a brother had gone, Master Regulus had felt some sort of loneliness, too. Master Regulus was lonely at school, not really fitting in with other students, and despite having become a Death Eater this past spring, Master was too young to fit in with others of the Dark Lord's followers, as well. Master Regulus was smart and powerful, and knew what he wanted from his life. But Master was also adrift at times, with the sense, like this boy, that he didn't really belong.

When Master Regulus moved, at last, it was almost too fast for Kreacher to see. Master took one step closer to the boy, then grasped the boy's thin, narrow face between his hands. Before the boy could pull away or object at all, Master pressed his lips to the boy's and kissed him thoroughly.

For the few moments they were caught together, Kreacher stared at the two of them unabashedly and smiled, showing teeth. The strange boy's eyes had fluttered closed, even as he stood otherwise stalk still in surprise, and his cheeks were flushed. Kreacher knew what that meant, among Humans.

Master Regulus was breathing heavily as he released the boy and stepped back. "Sorry . . . I . . ." He shook his head, and when the boy simply stared back and remained silent, Master fled from his own room without looking back. Kreacher followed on Master's heels.

_

* * *

_

What the hell?

The young man stared at the door, not sure whether he should go after Regulus, or whether he should just stay put. Regulus seemed to want to keep him hidden from his parents, which he could do best by staying in this room, but given what had just happened . . . he didn't want such a thing to go unremarked.

Touching fingers to his lips, he recalled the feel of Regulus' mouth upon his. He had been so surprised by the suddenness of the kiss that he'd just stood there like a lump when Regulus broke away. He was so stupid. He hadn't even responded, hardly, though he wanted to, he realized now. Oh yes; he wanted to.

Was it his mention of loneliness that had made Regulus kiss him? Was Regulus lonely, too? He wouldn't be surprised; this was an awfully big house for such a small family, and though Regulus had a few family photographs on the walls in the room, and many, many shelves of books, he had few things that pointed to peer relationships.

But maybe Regulus was just hoping to throw him off guard, so he'd "slip" and tell him details of his life, details he couldn't remember. Or maybe he was trying to encourage those memories into coming to the surface, by kissing him and making him feel strong emotions and making him . . . His face was hot, he realized, and he needed to stop thinking of Regulus and the kiss and what it meant, or he'd go crazy.

Needing a distraction, he moved over to the desk, where Regulus had dropped the parchment earlier, so he could get a closer look at whatever it was. He nudged the parchment over with one finger, to find an official looking letter with an seal centered on the bottom. The seal proclaimed the letter's origin as the Ministry of Magic.

Something flared in the young man's mind as he read that, an image of a piece of fabric fluttering in a doorway, in a room with no breeze flowing through it. The fabric then lay still, hiding what lay beyond. Along with the image was an intense feeling of regret and . . . shame? He shook his head, to clear the image from his head, then he glanced at the top of the sheet, where the words "Ordinary Wizarding Level Results" were written.

O.W.L. results. Another image flitted through his mind, of a sheet like this, but his, not Regulus' . . . with seven O.W.Ls earned. Yes, he _remembered_. He'd earned a passing mark or better in all his subjects except History of Magic and Divination. But that was okay, because Binns was exceptionally boring, and Divination was a joke, with every class set up to be a recitation of all the ways Trelawney could tell him he was doomed to die . . .

Wait. Where the hell had _that_ thought come from?

_Was_ he doomed to die?

_Yes._ He remembered that, too. A wizard with a long, white beard telling him . . . telling him . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to remember more about that wizard, and what secrets he'd been spilling that night, but nothing else came to him. With a sigh, he rubbed at his forehead and looked more closely at Regulus' marks. Obviously Regulus was very bright, as he had earned ten O.W.L.s from his exams at Hogwarts. All of his marks were either Exceeding Expectations or Outstanding, but they were mostly Outstanding.

_Hogwarts._

Holding the parchment now, he rubbed his head again with his other hand. He had gone to Hogwarts, too, he realized. Did he still go, he wondered, or had he graduated already? With the memory of that place, there was a sense of . . . having left something incomplete, and yet, his insides felt like they were being squeezed by a giant fist when he thought about Hogwarts and tried to recall what the school looked like, a feeling he could almost recognize as grief. But why would he feel that about a school? Had something bad happened there? Was he not meant to return?

Merlin, he wanted so badly to _remember_.

For one thing, if he had his memories, he wouldn't feel so stupid around Regulus. The blue-eyed boy must think him a complete prat, or an unconscionable liar, with him being unable to recall even his own name or where he was from. He wondered, again, what had made Regulus trust him enough to let him stay in his house, and more, allow him into his own room . . . And what in the world had possessed Regulus to kiss him?

Not that he hadn't enjoyed it.

A small smile crossed his lips again, as he returned to the bed to sit back down. He hoped Regulus didn't feel too embarrassed about the kiss, and also that he would return soon. He wanted to tell him about the things he'd remembered already, and to ask him some questions about the school, to see if Regulus could spark his memory . . . among other things.

To Be Continued . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Getting Back by jharad17**

**Chapter Three**

**Summary**: AU, Slash after OotP. During the summer after his 6th year, Harry is flung twenty years into the past and needs the help of both the Marauders and a certain Slytherin or two to get back his memories and return to his own time. HPRAB, HPSS, maybe HPSB.

**Warnings**: This story will be slash. I will warn again about particularly graphic scenes in the future, but overall, this is a slash story, so please don't be surprised later on, when there is man on man sex, specifically between Harry and other Hogwarts students. It's rated M for a reason.

**Previously, in Getting Back:**

_For the few moments they were caught together, Kreacher stared at the two of them unabashedly and smiled, showing teeth. The strange boy's eyes had fluttered closed, even as he stood otherwise stalk still in surprise, and his cheeks were flushed. Kreacher knew what that meant, among Humans._

_Master Regulus was breathing heavily as he released the boy and stepped back. "Sorry . . . I . . ." He shook his head, and when the boy simply stared back and remained silent, Master fled from his own room without looking back. Kreacher followed on Master's heels._

Regulus ran all the way to the library, so he could hide himself amongst books as he often preferred to do. His face felt hot with embarrassment. How could he have just grabbed that boy and kissed him? It didn't make any sense; he didn't even know the boy's name! The only thing he could recall, just before he'd launched himself at the boy, was a deep sense of understanding of what the boy meant when he said he felt like he'd never belonged anywhere, truly. He'd seen true torment in the boy's green eyes, such as he had never seen before, and his heart reached out to him . . . just before his hands had done the same.

In the library, Regulus grabbed at the first book he touched, once his hands stopped shaking. For the next hour or so, until he felt calm enough to return to his bedroom, he buried himself in Walden Melifleur's _Wand Making, Theory & Practice_, and after a while, found himself actually reading Melifleur's dry prose, instead of remaining entangled in worries about his error in judgment. As he rose from his seat, which was nestled in the back of the room between two tall shelves, he half hoped the boy would be gone by the time he returned; yet, he knew that would be impossible. Where would the boy go after all?

When he put finally his book away, Kreacher, who had been silently by his side since the moment he fled, tugged gently on the sleeve of his shirt.

"What is it, Kreacher?" he asked softly.

"Friend of Master is wearing Master's clothes," the House Elf told him, staring at the cuff of Regulus' shirt.

"He is?" Regulus thought back, but he didn't think the boy had changed clothes from the time he had been found, to when Regulus met with him after dinner. And he couldn't have appeared in the sitting room in Regulus' clothes. Could he?

"You must be mistaken."

Kreacher's reaction was immediate, like any devoted House Elf's would be. He clobbered his own face with clenched fists, hard enough that a Human would be bleeding and cried, "Kreacher _must_ be wrong. Kreacher is bad! Kreacher is _horrible_!"

Berating himself for forgetting what the result of his words would be, Regulus yanked Kreacher's hands away from his face, which was a bit of a struggle, as the House Elf was fairly strong. "Stop, Kreacher," he said sharply. "Do not punish yourself for this."

Kreacher ceased struggling instantly, following orders as expected, but his ears drooped low and he hung his head, refusing to meet his gaze. "Kreacher is so sorry, Master Regulus. Kreacher should never--"

"Stop apologizing and explain," Regulus said again, frowning. "What makes you say the boy is wearing my clothes?"

The House Elf hopped from one foot to the other in a nervous dance as he spoke. "Kreacher is checking Master's wardrobe, but Master's clothes is still there! But Master's friend is still be wearing same shirt, same cuffs, same collar as shirt Kreacher is finding in wardrobe. Master Regulus' clothes is coming from special tailor. Kreacher cannot see how Master's friend can be wearing same clothes, but he is!"

After parsing what the elf had to say, Regulus was willing to agree that it was very strange. There could, however, be a reasonable explanation. "Let's take a look at this shirt, Kreacher," he said. "Maybe he uses the same tailor? It could be that it's just a little bit different."

Kreacher looked doubtful, but at least he didn't start punching his own face again. Regulus hated when he did that.

With new purpose, Regulus found that going back to his room was a bit easier than if it just been to apologize to the boy for kissing him. He wasn't sure what he expected upon opening the door of his room, but finding the strange boy kipping on his bed, snoring softly, was not it.

Frowning slightly, Regulus entered the room anyway. He refused to be frightened out of his bedroom by a boy he hardly knew. Besides, this gave him a chance to check out Kreacher's story without the boy knowing. Quietly moving to the bed, Regulus watched for any indication that the boy was feigning sleep, but it seemed unlikely. There was even a small spot of sleep-drool on the pillow by his mouth to prove it, as he could not see someone drooling on themselves to continue a charade about such an unimportant thing. But then, one never knew what others considered important.

Shaking his head with a rueful smile at his own paranoia, he looked over the boy's shirt. It did look awfully familiar, and he gestured for Kreacher to retrieve his own shirt from the wardrobe. The House Elf obeyed with alacrity, obviously pleased to be back in his Master's good graces after the debacle of Regulus' doubt in him.

The two of them examined both shirts, looking from one to the other, but were unable to find any differences at all, in style, fabric or apparent size. So intent were the two of them that neither noticed the boy waking till the he cleared his throat.

Startled, Regulus actually flinched, and Kreacher hid his eyes with his long fingered hands before _popping_ out of the room. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he took the shirt in question with him.

Bright green eyes gazed guilelessly at Regulus, making his face go warm again. In a voice still hoarse from sleep, the boy said, "Hi."

"Hi," Regulus replied, still trying to get his heartbeat under control. "You're awake," he added, stupidly, and cursed himself for a muddleheaded fool.

"Yeah." The boy pushed himself up on the bed so that he was resting against the headboard, and swallowed hard, as if suddenly nervous. Regulus watched the boy's Adam's apple bob with the motion. "Sorry. I didn't mean to . . ." He waved his hand vaguely, as if not sure what to say.

The problem with such an undefined declaration was that Regulus didn't know what to say either, not until he blurted, "I apologize for kissing you."

The boy pulled a face, a mere creasing of his forehead and twitch of his lips, but to Regulus, it felt as strong an expression of displeasure as if the boy were scowling. "Are you sorry you did it? Or sorry you gave me no warning?"

Knowing his face was reddening more by the second, Regulus admitted, "Both, I suppose. I hardly know you, and you are a guest in my home--"

"Hardly an anticipated guest," the boy interrupted.

"Well, no . . ."

"And I . . ." Another swallow, almost convulsive. "I rather liked it. The kiss," he hastened to add.

"Did you."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

The boy quirked a smile. "Yeah."

At quite a loss for words again, which Regulus found a new and strange feeling, he found himself able only to stare at the boy some more: his tempting lips, startling green eyes, and the black mop of unruly hair that, despite being messy, framed his face quite nicely . . .

_Merlin_, he needed to stop this . . . whatever it was. _Now_.

"Who is your tailor?" he asked suddenly.

"My what?" The boy looked taken aback, and then licked his lips subconsciously.

The action made Regulus angry for some reason, as if the boy knew he was taunting him, though Regulus knew on some level that that was not the case. "Your tailor. You're wearing my shirt. Or one exactly like it in every detail." He almost wished Kreacher wold return with the other, to show the boy, but the House Elf would likely be a distraction about now.

"Am I?"

"I just said so, and I do not say what I do not mean."

"But . . ." The boy peered down at his shirt and plucked at the slim row of ivory buttons, each carved in the shape of a tiny rose. He frowned as if he had a sudden headache. "I think it is your shirt . . . I mean . . . how did I . . ." A sigh. "I was in your house . . ."

"When?" Had the boy seen the shirt and then had a duplicate made?

It seemed very unlikely behavior, and even more so when the boy answered his question with, "I don't know. I mean, I know I was in this room, I can see it in my memory, looking almost just like this, but not exactly . . . I can't tell _when_ it was, though, and . . . and I needed something to wear because I had only really huge cast-offs . . . They weren't mine, but then I found . . . your wardrobe? Your clothes, anyway . . . and I decided to take them. . . ." The boy squeezed shut his eyes and pressed a hand to them, looking drained. "I can't remember anything else," he whispered.

Regulus took a deep breath and eyed the boy carefully. "You do remember some things, about who you are, or where you're from, don't you."

"Yes. In flashes and snips." His hand stayed over his eyes, but his shoulders hunched up, as if to protect himself, even though Regulus had made no move to strike him. "For instance, I know I went to Hogwarts, but not what I did there or what year I was in. I remembered that much, though, after I saw your letter."

Regulus gaped at him, heart pounding again. "You looked at my letter?! How _could_ you?!"

"I'm sorry," the boy said. He dropped his hand and opened his eyes, all storm swept green and full of torment, as if pleading with Regulus to understand his deceit. "I caught a glimpse of the heading, and got a flash of memory. I didn't mean to pry or anything, but . . . I just can't . . . I hate not remembering!"

By force of will, Regulus made himself calm down. He disliked the feeling that the boy had been sneaking about his room and reading his O.W.L. report, and doing who knew what else? But if he was honest about it, the strength of his reaction was at least partly due to the fact that his parents had read his letter from the Ministry even before Regulus had gotten the chance to do so, and it rankled on him, still, that they gave him so little privacy or space to breathe. Finally, he mastered his emotions and said, simply, "I know."

The moment of tension passed, and then the boy snorted softly, self-deprecatingly. "Glad one of us does."

Regulus nodded, still thinking about what he had said before Regulus yelled at him. "What do you recall about Hogwarts? I don't remember you in any of my classes."

"I could be a year ahead or behind, then."

"Behind, I would hazard to guess," Regulus said with a smirk as he looked over the boy's narrow frame and small stature.

"Oi!" The boy flushed at the insinuation, or maybe because Regulus was looking him up and down appreciatively. "I remember taking my O.W.L.s, so I can't have been behind you!" Then he smirked right back. "Unless you've had to retake them?"

"I certainly did not!"

"Well, there then."

Regulus huffed out a frustrated breath. "How could you have gone to Hogwarts _and_ have taken your O.W.L.s, and yet I don't know you? I should, since we aren't very different in age."

"I told you, maybe I'm a year ahead. Or maybe I've already graduated." The boy grinned slyly. "Maybe I'm a prodigy or something."

"The 'or something' is practically guaranteed."

"Hey, watch it." The boy pouted, which made his lips look awfully kissable. "Or I might get the impression you don't like me."

"Come on now," Regulus said, ignoring the boy's comment. "Be serious for a minute."

Looking instantly contrite, the boy nodded. "Sorry. Just teasing. But you're right, I need to figure out what year I'm in. Maybe we can figure it out from the professors who teach my classes? I can remember two of their names: Binns and Trelawney."

"Binns teaches History of Magic," Regulus said, and the boy nodded.

"He's a ghost."

Regulus nodded in turn. "But I've never heard of Trelawney. What does he--"

"She."

"What does _she_ teach?"

The boy bit his lip, and Regulus longed to pull the abused bit of flesh from between those even teeth. "Divination. But I know she's been teaching at Hogwarts for a long time . . . I don't know how long, though." He shook his head, with that pained look again, before he gave an almost mocking laugh. "She's always predicting my death."

Her teaching methods hardly mattered. With a sinking feeling of dread, Regulus said slowly, "The Divination professor is Wyllfred Trimble. He's been at Hogwarts since the '50's. He replaced Honore Yelslip, who was the Divination professor for . . . more than two decades," he concluded after a small pause. He had been going to say, "the Dark Lord," and had quickly changed his mind, not sure, suddenly, if it was a good idea to tell the boy about Lord Voldemort at all. Perhaps it never would be.

"No," the boy said, his green eyes wide and almost frightened. "That's impossible."

"You must be mistaken." The words left his mouth for the second time in an hour, but at least this time, the person he said them to didn't start smashing his own face with his own fists.

"I'm _not_. I have a very clear picture of her, in her necklaces and big spectacles, and I can almost _smell_ the perfumed air of the north tower . . ."

"Professor Trimble teaches in a classroom on the third floor."

"That's not--"

"I assure you, I am correct," Regulus said, but not without concern. How was this particular problem to be accounted for? Recalling different professors was far harder to explain than them possibly having the same tailor who had made them the same shirt. In fact, he had been just about willing to bet the boy had never gone to Hogwarts, no matter what he said about Binns, until he'd mentioned the towers. After a moment, he added in a quiet, voice, as far from accusing as he could make it, "After all, which of us has the faulty memory?"

Looking stricken, the boy nodded and pressed a hand to his eyes again. "I just . . . I know she was my professor. I can't explain it."

"I'm sorry," Regulus said quietly.

"It's hardly your fault."

"I know. But I can be sorry anyway."

Silence fell over them for the next few minutes as they tried to wrap their minds around this new revelation. Regulus watched the boy's inner turmoil as it played across his face, each subsequent expression nearly heart wrenching in its honesty, and he thought about the boy's situation and how to explain the circumstances of his arrival here, the bursts of memory and the shirt, as well.

When the boy let go a large breath and then eyed Regulus, he seemed to have made up his mind about something. "How could this memory be possible?" he asked, raising his hand to stop any protest Regulus might have made. He had made the question sound like a statement, as if he were leading up to something. "Just in case my mind _is_ working, I mean, and I'm not any more wrong than you are. If this _is_ your shirt, and I remember taking it from your wardrobe, but it's still in there, and I have gone to Hogwarts, but had at least one different professor from you, and you don't recall my being there . . . is there _any way_ this could be possible?"

Regulus nodded, noticing the boy doing the same. As if by spoken agreement, at the same time, they said, "Time travel."

To Be Continued . . .

**A/N: **I have a new Yahoo group dedicated to readers of all my stories, where you can ask questions about plot, characters, what-have-you, get updates of new chapters, or chat with other readers. Please join, via the link on my profile page! We're waiting for _you_.


End file.
